


Sanda

by twoofdiamonds



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Short Story, Weirdness, not sure what I was on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3530498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoofdiamonds/pseuds/twoofdiamonds





	Sanda

Sanda realised that her flat was on fire when she reached the wasteland of what had once been a parking lot. To the best of her knowledge she was the only remaining resident. Sometimes she passed a junkie on her way up. Sometimes in the winter a lost soul would be huddled in the corridor. She hoped there was no one there now. The tower block smoked like a defective electrical appliance. The plumbing and wiring had been a minefield and it was only a matter of time. She was lucky to have been out when the weakest link in her fragile armour finally ignited.

 

She watched with resignation as her window blew out. The tower block was an ugly relic from the high point of a well-intentioned political system that had been misguided and ultimately disastrous. She did a quick inventory of what she had lost. Everything. From this distance it could have been someone else’s life in flames. She slid down onto the rubble and leaned back against accommodating chicken mesh. There was really nowhere else to go.

 

The wailing of a siren broke her vigil and surprised Sanda. The sound took her back to a time when fire engines and ambulances had been an everyday thing. She had heard of a few affluent districts where replenishment was underway, but most of the country remained war torn and forlorn. District 13 was particularly devastated and devoid of inhabitants, except for the gangs of children who lived fast and died very young. She had been stubborn, well beyond the point of stupidity, in continuing to stay.

 

“They probably won’t try too hard,” observed the young man.

 

He was just a few metres from her, leaning against the same fence. Sanda could have sworn that she was alone. She scrambled to her feet, dropping her bags, spilling her meagre groceries and looking around for the rest of his gang. He was alone. “I didn’t see you,” she said clumsily, then gestured with her head towards the fire. “It was my place.”

 

He nodded. “Need a place for lunch then?” Open faced, eyebrows making the offer genuine.

 

Sanda didn’t reply immediately. He probably meant her all kinds of harm. It was a lesson Sanda had learned the hard way for years. On the other hand she had nothing else, only the food lying in the dust between them.

 

There had been a lot of time alone for Sanda. Time to dwell and time to think. After the initial heartbreak had eased she had come to be comfortable on her own. Sometimes there were glimpses of beauty: a beautiful cloud formation; a beautiful tune from an open window; a beautiful person in an otherwise grey crowd. She loved these moments and cherished them like a collector of fine china. Her bleak surroundings had made Sanda a connoisseur of beauty, and the boy in the black hoodie was certainly beautiful, angelic even. She nodded, “Thank you.”

 

With catlike grace he scooped up the spilled shopping and…

 

***

 

…but where was she? She hadn’t woken up. There had been no slowly coming around. Sanda was simply wide awake and somewhere else entirely, sitting upright on a plush red leather Chesterfield. “Oh,” she said and then, because she was clearly in someone else’s house, added, “Um, hello?”

 

It was the boy. He came through a door as if summoned, as though he had been waiting on the other side for her call. Only now that Sanda looked properly, he wasn’t a boy at all. He was older than she had thought, about her age, smiling easily. It must have been a trick of the light. The hoodie was gone, replaced by a casual shirt.

 

“You’ve had a bit of a shock,” he said. “How are you feeling? Ready for lunch?”

 

“Yes,” she said, then “No,” shaking her head a little. “I’m sorry. Lunch would be lovely, in a moment. My name is Sanda. This must be your place? It’s really nice…”

 

She was babbling but he didn’t seem to mind, taking a seat on the same Chesterfield and nodding. Sanda had a feeling that he had already known her name, in the same way that he had known it was her flat that was on fire. “Call me Tarome,” he said.

 

He shifted towards Sanda and she realised that he wanted sex. She was surprised that he had bothered to bring her to what she assumed was his home and offered her lunch. Her world was a cruel place in which men took what they wanted when they wanted, from those unfortunate or foolish enough to be caught.

 

Tarome didn’t move again, however. He sat still, averting his eyes to the rug, allowing her to look at him. He was handsome but without the shining brilliance she had imagined in daylight. Sanda could see the tiny wrinkles in his skin. He had strong looking hands, much larger than her own, and sandy hair. He smelled earthy and sweet and suddenly she didn’t mind that he wanted her. The smell was delicious but very faint. She wanted to get closer. She wanted to touch his face.

 

She swallowed and looked away.

 

She glanced at a picture. “Andreescu,” he said, “An original.” When Sanda didn’t respond he continued to talk about the painting. Oil on canvas. A path through the woods in the snow. A lone peasant woman walking away from the viewer, carrying buckets of water over her shoulders. He said something about the woman, a brief lover of the artist perhaps. Sanda found it more and more difficult to concentrate on the story. The desire to regain Tarome’s attention built like an unbearable buzz under her skin. Finally she could take it no longer and reached out to touch his hand.

 

He stopped speaking at once, covering her hand with his other, and turned to face her. His eyes asked a question, perhaps the oldest question known to man, and it hung between them. Sanda’s breath came more quickly and she parted her lips. He seemed to take this for an answer. With the same feline fluidity exhibited earlier he knelt before her on the rug and placed his big warm hands just above her knees.

 

Sanda thought that her legs seemed thin, pale and childlike. She resisted him briefly but then allowed him to part her thighs. She lay back into the sofa, not knowing what else to do with her upper body. Her skirt was raised carefully onto her stomach and she felt embarrassed by her lack of stockings and unfashionable knickers. She felt nervous and jumpy. Tarome seemed to understand this because for a long time he did nothing but stroke the insides of her thighs. She became focussed on this movement and when his hands travelled upwards she held her breath wondering whether this time he would touch her sex. Each time he stopped, a few inches short. Gradually tension built inside her and she started to move her hips a little. Each time she thought _this time_ , _this time_ , forgetting her apprehension. Each time he stopped short and soon she was very aroused, longing for the first touch. She made a frustrated noise and he brushed her sex in answer, light as a feather, through her underwear. It was electric.

 

She was reluctant to be pulled upright again but complied easily enough when he wanted to undress her. He pulled down her knickers first, quite wet by now, gently parting her sex with his fingers and taking a look. She blushed fiercely. Then he took off her shoes and clothes with the same care. She stood unwrapped and naked before him, her back to the open fire, warming her back and buttocks. He sat back on the sofa, looking her over, and she found heat and pleasure in his gaze.

 

He touched her thigh, very close to her sex, and ran a single finger down to her knee. When he spoke his voice was gravelly, “You know, you haven’t lost everything.” He stood up then, close enough that she could smell him again. He looked down at her and ran his fingers lightly along her bare arms. Then he squeezed her upper arms tightly. Sanda shivered. “I almost wish that you had,” he said, and closed the distance with a kiss.

 

The kiss was wet and slow. At first Sanda was passive, allowing herself to be kissed, enjoying his taste. Then her new-found impatience resurfaced and she began to kiss back, tentatively at first and then more insistently, wrapping her arms around his neck and then pressing her small breasts desperately against his shirt.

 

Her whole body was on overdrive from being stroked for so long. Her nipples rubbed against pockets and buttons, feeling nicer than she ever imagined they could. In surprise at the new sensation she lost concentration and broke the kiss. Tarome gave her a knowing look, which only served to make her hotter, and cupped her breasts. They felt firmer and heavier to Sanda. He pushed them gently upwards and then kneaded small circles outwards with his palms. Sanda moaned. The sensation was utterly new. It was like discovering a second sex, different but equally sensual. It was so good, she wanted it to go on forever. When she started feeling that she could climax from this alone, he stopped and turned her so that she was facing away from him.

 

Sanda listened as Tarome undressed and then sighed in contentment when he drew her backwards against his body, his length hard against her bottom. He felt cool to her heated skin. He took her breasts again, this time squeezing them from behind as though he were milking her, starting with the whole breast and then pulling her nipples outwards and forwards. The feeling was incredible. Sanda had never had children. She had been young when the fighting started, surviving by chance, and alone ever since. She didn’t recognise the feeling of milk in her breasts, a fullness that also seemed to build in her womb. When her milk started to squirt out, onto the rug and then further, towards the fire, she was almost delirious with pleasure. Some part of her mind was shocked but mostly it felt _right_ , as though her pleasure was so great it could no longer be contained, spilling from her. She was not aware of the small keening noise she was making until he moved her again, this time leading her to his bed.

 

It was an elaborate four-poster with velvet drapes and an embroidered fringe. The wood was dark and elaborately carved. When Tarome threw back the patchwork spread, the sheets beneath were crisp white and looked as though they had never been slept in. He pushed her down but she held on, pulling him onto her, and for a moment she was smothered by his skin and his smell, making her want more. She reached down to guide him inside her but he pulled away. Instead, he lifted and repositioned her so that she lay on the pillows. Again, he pushed her legs upwards and as wide apart as they would go, giving him an unrestricted view of her sex, now slick with the wetness that had seeped down onto her thighs.

 

She tried to push her legs wider, saying “please,” in case the invitation of her body was not enough. _Please go into me_ , was what she meant. _Please fill me_. He ran his forefinger in small circle around the mouth of her vagina, infuriatingly slowly. She had never wanted something so badly. “Oh _pleeease_ ,” she said again, “I can’t take anymore.”

 

He shook his head a little in amusement but pulled himself up, quickly sliding into her. “Yessssss,” she hissed, closing her eyes and arching backwards. She felt tight around him, despite being wet and aroused, and when he moved she felt every detail.

 

He let her become accustomed to the fullness, moving slowly at first. When she started to push her hips towards him he thrust harder but with steely control. Sanda existed only in the moment, living for the next thrust and the fullness. She wanted to consume this wonderful man and somehow take him into her womb. She raised her legs and begged “ _more more more_ ”. Obligingly he thrust a little faster, a little harder. She squeezed him as tightly as she could with her muscles and abruptly he stopped and pulled out, closing his eyes and quietly saying “not yet” as he lay next to her.

 

Sanda had other ideas, straddling him and feeling utter bliss once again as she guided him inside. There had been others, years ago, and Sanda had been a quiet lover. This Sanda was a new woman. Aroused beyond any previous experience, she felt changed and powerful. She ground herself against Tarome and this time it was he who groaned. She moved her hips in half circles, finding a rhythm of sorts, letting herself be guided by the familiar feeling of a building climax.

 

Tarome reached for her breasts, milking them again and the pleasure was more than Sanda’s body could manage. She climaxed in powerful waves that seemed to go on forever, feeling smug as Tarome came inside her.

 

Afterwards he kissed her belly between her navel and her sex. “So fragile” he murmured and pressed his palm against her hip. The skin under his hand burned and Sanda shouted out, but the pain died away more quickly than her cry. She tried to push him away but he held onto her effortlessly and planted a firm but tender kiss on her forehead. “Shhhh,” he whispered, stroking her hair. She allowed herself to be calmed, and gradually slipped into a light and easy sleep.

 

 

This time she was aware of coming around. Her body was languid and sensual and she felt deeply happy. She stretched and that felt lovely too, so she laughed.

 

Tarome was immediately at the bedside with a tray. He nodded, although she had not spoken, and after a moment he set the tray down. “Lunch,” he said with a small smile. He seemed sad and she thought that she had misjudged his age again. He must be at least ten years her senior, perhaps twenty.

 

Sanda wrinkled her nose. “Apple and vodka?” she asked, needlessly because that was clearly what was on offer. The apple had been sliced and there were three tiny glasses of clear liquid. She could smell the alcohol.

 

Shrugging she ate an apple slice. It was juicy and crunchy but disappointingly tasteless. She downed the contents of the glass closest to her and enjoyed the warmth as it travelled down her throat.

 

His reply seemed to come from a long way away. “Not vodka,” he said, “Just another clear spirit,” and he seemed so sad and defeated that Sanda felt terribly sorry for him. His face seemed to thin with age as she watched, his eyes sinking deeper and deeper…

 

***

 

…and for the second time that day Sanda found herself transported. She was alone.

 

The Fire Service, or what was left of it, was arriving. A small crowd, mostly kids with a few elderly people, had gathered beneath the tower block. Apparently they were too close because a stern looking fireman was jostling them backwards.

 

Sanda pulled herself up off the rubble. She checked her clothes but they were in order. Her body didn’t feel like it had just experienced life changing pleasure, although her sex did throb when she thought about him, and there was a new heaviness in her breasts. Checking that no-one was watching, she lifted her skirt to inspect her hip.

 

At first glance the tattoo looked like a single spade, the kind from a deck of cards, but upside down. On closer inspection Sanda realised that it was a black heart being pierced from above by a stake. The detail was such that the point where the stake cut into the heart was bleeding. The blood was red. She touched the tattoo and smiled. The sense of contentment remained. It seemed to have settled into her bones.

 

Seven years alone were too many. She took one last look at the burning tower block and the dying neighbourhood that she had called home for all of her life and then turned away. She was a streetwise survivor who had lived through hell on earth, weathering the loss of everyone she had known. This was _the other side._ She picked up her shopping and walked back the way she had come


End file.
